Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  “So let me rephrase my earlier question. Did you dig up any helpful information?”

  “Yeah. I paid Jackson’s boss a visit. He confirmed our guy was on the job the day the bomb was left at Eve’s—except for the half hour he disappeared on lunch break. The job was in Kirkwood.”

  Colin pursed his lips. “That would put him—what? Eight to ten minutes from Eve Reilly’s place?”

  “Right.”

  “I wonder if anyone can vouch for his whereabouts during the missing half hour?”

  “That’s one of the questions I plan to ask him—especially since his boss said his typical lunch routine is to hang around and play with his cell.”

  “Suspicious.”

  “But not incriminating.” Brent rose from the corner of his desk and settled into his chair. “I asked the boss to keep our conversation confidential.”

  “You think he will?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t come across as a huge fan of Jackson.”

  “Did he offer anything else?”

  “He said Jackson shows up and does the job, so no complaints on the work side. But he’s overheard him making demeaning remarks about his wife to his coworkers—and bragging about his, shall we say, extracurricular activities—which didn’t endear him to the man.”

  “He’s cheating on his wife?”

  “His cell records would suggest that. There are frequent calls to a waitress named Candy Norris who works at a local bar.”

  “What a loser.” Colin snorted his disgust. “However . . . planting a fake bomb, slashing tires, and issuing threats just to get his wife back under his thumb on the home front seems excessive.”

  “Eve agrees with you. But we’ve got his DNA at her car.”

  “I know—and that can’t be coincidence. Everything points to him.” Colin shrugged. “Maybe the guy’s just arrogant. Thinks he’s smart enough to put one over on law enforcement. Some criminals are convinced they’re invincible and get bolder and bolder . . . until they get caught.”

  “That could be the case here.”

  “But if he is your guy, how would he know about the history that caller brought up on the radio program?”

  “He may have run into someone who knew Eve back in her teaching days. The wife of the jerk she dated told at least a few people what happened.”

  Colin laced his fingers over his stomach. “We have more questions than answers at this stage.”

  “Agreed. That’s why I’m going to go talk to him. Want to come along?”

  “Sure. It could be interesting—and the intimidation factor of two-on-one won’t hurt.”

  “That did occur to me.”

  “I’m meeting Trish for dinner after we’re finished, so I’ll join you at the house. I’ve got the address.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Five minutes later, after attending to his own messages and riffling through a stack of papers in his inbox, Brent left the office behind.

  And tried to tamp down his disquiet.

  New as he was to the detective ranks, he’d been around the law enforcement block often enough to develop accurate instincts—and those instincts said Jackson was guilty.

  Yet something felt . . . off.

  Frowning, he exited the building and lengthened his stride toward his car.

  Maybe his uneasiness would dissipate after he talked to the man. Jackson could let a key piece of information slip that would lead to solid, admissible evidence.

  The very thing needed to take this case forward.

  Because other than that tiny clump of hair, they had nothing. The crime scenes were clean and there were no witnesses. There was no absolute proof Steve Jackson was their man.

  Without that, he could walk.

  Meaning Eve’s life could still be in danger.

  “That’s odd.” Meg stopped as she passed the front window and peered outside.

  Steve took a long pull from his beer and continued toward his recliner. If he ignored her, maybe she’d shut up. After working in the heat for eight hours, he wanted to cool off and veg—not listen to his wife’s inane chatter.

  “I wonder why that detective who’s working on Eve’s case would be in front of our house?”

  The swig of brew he’d swallowed lodged in his windpipe, and Steve started coughing.

  Meg was beside him in an instant, her voice dripping with concern. “Are you all right, honey?”

  “Fine.” He choked out the response and sped toward the window as he tried to catch his breath.

  But the sight outside froze his lungs, cutting off his air supply.

  Two tall guys in jackets and ties were talking on the sidewalk in front of his house.

  If one of them was the investigator on Eve’s case, this visit was bad news.

  Very bad.

  “Are you certain that’s the detective?” He threw the question over his shoulder as he watched the men.

  “Yes.” Meg joined him. “He’s the one on the left. He came to the station to review the threatening notes I pulled from Eve’s social media and the letters she gets from listeners. I saw him up close.”

  Steve bit back a curse—but a second later it slipped out as the two men started up the walk toward the front door.

  What was going on?

  “Steve—what’s wrong?” Meg edged closer to him, trepidation etched on her features.

  “Nothing.”

  He hoped.

  It was possible they were here to talk to Meg. She’d been involved in the case from the beginning.

  Yet it was doubtful his wife was the person they’d come to see.

  And if she wasn’t, he wanted her out of here until he heard what they had to say and came up with a plan to deal with it.

  The two men stepped up onto the porch.

  He angled toward Meg. “Could they be here to talk to you about the case?”

  “I doubt it. If they wanted to ask me any questions, they could do it at the station. Or call me.” She wrinkled her brow. “But why else would they come here?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” The doorbell rang, and he gripped her arm as she turned to answer it. “If they’re here to see me, I want you to leave the house. Make an excuse. You have to go to the grocery store, pick up dry cleaning. Anything.”

  “Why?” The grooves on her forehead deepened.

  The bell chimed again.

  “Just do it. I’ll explain later.” He tightened his grip and glared at her.

  “O-okay.” She looked scared now.

  He could relate.

  But he couldn’t let these two men sniff one hint of fear. He had to act polite, cooperative—and clueless.

  “Answer it.” He released her with a slight shove.

  She stumbled back . . . caught her balance . . . and hurried to the door.

  Beer in hand, he sat in his recliner and forced himself to take deep breaths.

  After a brief murmur of voices, Meg reappeared in the doorway to the living room, the two men behind her. “Steve, these are detectives from St. Louis County. They’d like to talk with you.”

  He blinked, feigning surprise, and stood. “Detectives?”

  The two men stepped around Meg, who seemed rooted to the spot, and approached him, extending their hands as they introduced themselves.

  He returned the gesture, apologizing for his damp, cold palm and attributing it to the sweaty beer can.

  A lie—but they wouldn’t know that.

  “Make yourselves comfortable.” He motioned to the couch and side chair. “Does my wife have to stay? She has errands to run tonight.”

  The one named Lange spoke. “No.”

  He pivoted to Meg so she alone could see that the grim set of his face was at odds with his pleasant tone. “You don’t have to hang around, honey. I don’t want to disrupt your evening plans.”

  “Well . . .” She twisted her hands together, and he glowered at her. “In that case, I’ll take care of my errands.” She nodded toward the two men, who r
emained standing.

  They waited until she left the room to take seats.

  Nice manners.

  The cop he’d tangled with in Texas could take a few lessons from these guys.

  Yet as he reclaimed his recliner and assessed the two men across from him, their probing gazes and the controlled, coiled tension emanating from them suggested there was steel beneath their veneer of politeness.

  Messing with these guys could be tricky.

  A bead of sweat popped out on his forehead, and the other detective—Flynn—homed in on it.

  “Are you guys hot?” He swiped the drop away. No sense pretending he wasn’t sweating. “We turn the thermostat up during the day while we’re at work, and Meg must have forgotten to reset it when she got home.”

  “I’m fine.” Lange leaned back, his posture relaxed, as if this was nothing more than a friendly visit.

  But his sharp eyes said otherwise.

  “Let me check it anyway.” He set his can on the side table. “I’ll be back in half a minute.”

  Leaving the two detectives behind, he fled to the hall, moved the thermostat three degrees lower than usual, flexed his fingers, and rotated his shoulders.

  He had to loosen up. If these guys possessed one iota of incriminating evidence, they wouldn’t be wasting time on a casual chat. They’d be reading him his rights. Whatever they’d found to bring them to his doorstep wasn’t usable in court.

  Everything was fine. There was no reason to panic.

  Pasting on a smile, he rejoined them. “It should cool down in a few minutes. Now tell me how I can help you.”

  “I’m the lead detective on the Eve Reilly case.” Lange pulled out a notebook. “I’d like to ask you a few questions related to that.”

  His mouth flattened. “May I ask why?”

  “We’re following up on several pieces of information. One of them led us to you.”

  “Which one?”

  Lange ignored him. “Could you tell us where you were last Saturday evening?”

  They’d linked him to the tire slashing.

  But how?

  “Why do you want to know?” Unless he knew what they had on him, he wouldn’t be able to come up with a viable defense.

  Lange offered him a smile that contained no trace of humor. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

  Checkmate.

  Steve picked up his beer and took a sip of the tepid brew. Refusing to answer would add to the suspicions these two already had. But he couldn’t tell them the whole truth, either. There were gaps in the timing between his activities.

  If they’d run his credit card history, they’d found the gas receipt from that night, when he’d filled his tank while he was out. If they hadn’t, they would eventually. Lying about that would be crazy.

  His skin began to itch, and he scratched his arm. “I was here, with Meg. I did run out for a few minutes to fill up my car at the station down the street, but that was it.”

  Not true . . . and Candy would lie for him, tell these cops whatever he asked her to . . . but bringing her into the discussion would cause all kinds of garbage to hit the fan on the home front if Meg found out.

  Meg would also lie for him about Saturday night if he pushed her—but that shouldn’t be necessary. A wife didn’t have to testify against her husband. And he’d tell her that later tonight, in case one of these guys cornered her away from the house and began asking questions.

  The lead detective never broke eye contact with him. “Can you tell us where you were on your lunch hour on Friday, August 24?”

  The day of the fake bomb incident.

  He was definitely in their sights.

  And he still didn’t know why.

  “I’ll be happy to—but you haven’t answered my question yet. Why do you want to know? Am I a suspect in this case?”

  “Should you be?”

  “Of course not! Why would you think that?”

  “We found a small clump of your hair next to Eve Reilly’s car on Saturday night.”

  Shock reverberated through him—but he managed to keep his alarm from showing.

  Careful, Jackson. That incident never made the news, and Meg hasn’t mentioned it. You don’t know about it.

  He scratched his arm again and gave them a look he hoped came across as confused. “At the gas station?”

  The two men exchanged a glance he couldn’t decipher.

  “Let’s not play games, Mr. Jackson.” This from Flynn.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His baseball cap should have been sufficient protection that night—and it would have been if he hadn’t scraped his head on the doorframe and lost the cap in the process.

  He’d checked, though—and there’d been no evidence of that tiny mishap.

  Who’d have thought a few stray strands of dark hair would be noticed on black asphalt—or even still be there by the time Eve came out?

  “Then explain how your hair ended up in the parking lot at the middle school where Ms. Reilly was giving a speech.” Lange rejoined the conversation.

  Keep playing dumb, Jackson. You can explain this.

  “I was on a painting job at a middle school last week.” He named it. The flyer on the bulletin board in the lobby was what had tipped him off to Eve’s speech. “Is that the one you mean?”

  The two guys traded another look. It wasn’t any easier to read—but his legitimate explanation had to throw a major fly in their ointment.

  “You can verify that with my boss if you want.” It couldn’t hurt to keep trying to be helpful.

  “You haven’t told us where you were on August 24 during your lunch hour.” Lange dropped the pleasant pretense.

  “I went to Subway to get a sandwich. Do you want to see my credit card receipt?”

  “Which Subway?”

  “The one in Maplewood.” The opposite direction from Eve’s house.

  Giving his card to one of his coworkers and asking him to pick up a sandwich while the man ran home over lunch to let his dog out had been inspired. He’d never expected to need the alibi—but covering all your bases was smart.

  Lange closed his notebook. “We appreciate your time.”

  “Always glad to help out law enforcement.”

  “Not in Texas—or Washington.”

  Another film of sweat broke out on his upper lip.

  They’d dug into his background.

  But that’s what cops did.

  Everything they’d found had been history, however. It had nothing to do with his current life—or the Eve Reilly situation.

  “I’ve made a new start. My record is clean.”

  The detective pocketed his notebook. “We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

  Without waiting for a response, the two men walked toward the door without offering to shake his hand again.

  He followed them, twisted the knob, and let them out in silence.

  After he secured the lock, he moved to the window and watched from the side as they retraced their steps down the walk.

  They paused for less than a minute to talk at the end of the sidewalk, then peeled off toward their separate cars. They couldn’t have covered much ground beyond acknowledging they’d run into a dead end.

  Yet they could continue digging tomorrow.

  Steve returned to the living room and dropped into his chair.

  No matter how much they dug, though, he should be safe. The hair was a mistake—but that was his only one.

  Nevertheless, it was important that Meg keep her mouth shut about his absence last Saturday night if those detectives happened to speak with her.

  An instruction he would pass on as soon as she got home.

  She’d have questions, but a little fast talking and a healthy dose of affection would put those to rest. Meg was all about keeping the waters at home smooth—and she was a sucker for a little smooching.

  Yeah, she’d be easy to keep in line. />
  And once the detectives realized they had nothing worthwhile to pursue, they’d let this go—and he’d be home free.

  15

  THE DOORBELL RANG on Friday morning at precisely five-fifteen, and Eve smiled.

  Punctuality joined the list of Brent’s many other attributes.

  As she entered the small foyer, she ran her fingers through her hair. Rising in what felt like the middle of the night wasn’t her favorite part of the radio gig—but being chauffeured by a handsome man made the pre-dawn jangle of the alarm much more palatable.

  She pulled open the door and gave Brent’s crisp white shirt, silk tie, tailored jacket, and dress slacks a fast sweep. The more formal attire suited him, but she’d be willing to bet he’d exchange it in a heartbeat for jeans and a T-shirt.

  Which also suited him.

  “Morning.” He smiled at her, fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

  “You look chipper for such an early hour.” She smoothed a hand down the tunic that hit her leggings mid-thigh and motioned him in.

  “Law enforcement isn’t a nine-to-five gig.” He entered, his gaze heating up as he discreetly surveyed the casual attire that was one of the perks of a job where her audience never saw her. “I learned long ago to function on less-than-optimal amounts of sleep.”

  “Well, I hope you turned in early last night to compensate for the long day ahead.”

  “That was my plan, but I got called to a crime scene on my way home. I didn’t hit the sheets until after midnight.”

  “Ouch.” She winced. “You should have left me a text message and cancelled this morning. I could have driven myself.”

  “Not an option.” His tone brooked no arguments. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes—as soon as I grab our coffee. Give me a sec.”

  She hurried to the kitchen to retrieve the two insulated travel mugs she’d prepared, then rejoined him in the foyer. “At this hour, I figured we could both use a caffeine infusion.”

  “I was going to pilfer coffee at the station, but your java is far superior to the stuff in your break room.” He took the offering she held out.